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Rotipher of the FoS
Thieving Crow
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Since I put Crow in a position where his inner turmoil isn't as well-masked as usual, I guess I can't object if Buchvold picks up on how ticked off the bard was, coming back into the room! :roll: Details on why he's mad (i.e. at himself) won't be evident from a Sense Motive check, but the Borcan can certainly tell his "tame thief" is furious about something ... just what he'll assume that something is, I'll leave up to you to choose, Moral! :wink: ]


Ah, Buchvold. Why am I not surprised you've no taste for playing the long odds? Something tells me there's not much competition in the Lechberg magic-wares market; you look too hard for a sure thing, my belatedly-skeptical "Brother-in-Shadow"!

The bard shrugged dismissively, relaxing into his comfortable pretense of jaunty irreverence. "It's not the credibility of every word spoken that counts," Crow pointed out. "It's the 'facts' she'll unearth, trying to choose amongst the various lies presented to her. Really, would you expect a member of your little supper-club to credence any tale proffered by a little-known Brother, in the wake of Van Rijn's treachery, lacking positive verification...? Relating the sorry tale of 'Brother Crow's' orphan membership outright, without dark hints of covert scheming or the manipulative ploys of his superiors ... now, that really would have given the game away! Let her believe whatever her own queries appear to substantiate; the more Kingsley doubts, the less-willing she'll be to broach those suspicions to others, having neither certainty nor proof."

The VRS spy chuckled. "Except to you, perhaps. Don't be surprised if you receive two letters from that woman, not just the one! Apart from tracking down Lord Taroyan's files, she'll surely look into why you'd accused me at the Manoir: shame there weren't any witnesses to that minor misunderstanding but a couple of dead wolfweres; it'd be handy if it were verifiable by outside testimony." He grinned at the mention of the Borcan's past error, savoring the opportunity to needle the illusionist now that the other man couldn't afford to lash out at him ... not least, for fear that Kingsley would overhear any such commotion, giving the game away for both of them.

(The fact that Kingsley had left the hotel, the bard kept to himself. The Borcan wizard was learning, but he was still tempremental enough that Crow wasn't going to bet that one leash upon his "ally's" pique was sufficient.)

"As it is," the bard continued, as he reclaimed his seat on the bedside and commenced removing his boots, "she'll winnow out the chaff of fancy and speculation, and be left with a bare few confirmable facts: that Dzungaria Tao's lamentably-dreadful articles were amongst Rodrigo Taroyan's papers; that a violinist named Corbil did die by violence and under cryptic circumstances in Delagia; that the Doomsday Device was to blame for Il Aluk's demise, a fact which is virtually unknown outside the Fraternity's own ranks.

"In light of such evidence, can 'my' sigil-ring truly constitute anything but further proof...? Even if she never accepts my words, she'll sieze upon that indisputable fact to narrow the scope of her speculations." And to reassure herself she's not totally at sea, Crow mused but did not say. Teaching Buchvold how to play the game hadn't been one of the terms of the two men's grudging armistice; if the Borcan cared to learn the art of putting himself in another's place, to foresee the course of their thinking, that was the wizard's own lookout.

And as long as we're on that subject..., the bard observed, as the last of his disquiet subsided and he grasped the initiative once more.

"As for any 'ideas' she might have," he retorted, "if you'd turned up that journal of Taroyan's a month ago, there may not have been any need for such contrivance! Really, if you've left his paperwork unsorted this long, your late Brother might have been rather better-served, selecting a different man to inherit his Fraternity bric-a-brac. These rings aren't the unbreachable security-measure your brethren boast them to be, but even I need to know a little about the man, to defraud this over-finicky bauble of his...."

Crow shot a dirty look at the sigil-ring on his finger, for having stubbornly resisted his efforts to feign its deceased owner's persona. Buchvold had only provided him with Taroyan's private writings recently, when they'd rendevoused in town, a day before Kingsley's anticipated arrival. With time to study Rodrigo's journal, the bard was confident he'd improve his success-rate; up to now, he'd not known enough of the secondhand ring's attuned owner to emulate his thought-patterns reliably.

Oh, well. At least the Borcan's arrival had given him another way to fake the same effect. Too bad he'd never learned to summon darkness himself -- from Crow's perspective, there was quite enough dark in the world already -- but Buchvold's assistance had sufficed to equip him for the necessary deception.

(Truth be told, the bard felt a nagging obligation to thank the illusionist for that service. But of course, he'd never admit it: seeing Buchvold glower over his "ally's" ingratitude was far too amusing for that.)


[OOC: There you go, at long last! Sorry I dropped out of the threads for so long: I was wrapping up a semester's teaching, but all my grades are finally in now and I'm free for the summer! Yippeee!!! :lol: ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Moral Machivelli
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Post by Moral Machivelli »

Odd. The bard is.. angry about something.
I don't think he let his cover slip to Kingsly, Firstly, I would have noted it, even with the
ridiculously low quality of his spell. Secondly, he would have told me if he made a mistake. So why is he so angry?

Lets approach this logically

He came in with such haste, ergo, it probably happened immediately before (the bard would have his emotions well under control during the conversation.) but what could be the matter ?

Hmm... I'll let it rest for now, but it must be important, to necessitate such a reac...

Oh, don't tell me. He let something personal slip... but what could it be?
Their were only a few seconds.


A problem for another time, but still an Important one.

"Hmm, You are probably right."

"I have already had Zivon draft up replies to both." The Borcan smiles

"And as to Taroyan's effects, Probate was only just cleared last week. and under Borcan Chancellery Law, all of the deceases effect are impounded until that date."

"Not just the money, thief"

"But, Now on to further plans. As you know, I am to shortly depart for Sithicus. Taroyan's copy of Darson’s Journal was vague in the extreme, but it sounds promising. The samurai mercenary in the area seemed amiable in his reply to my initial letter."

"As to your own plans?.."

The Borcan lets the question hang.
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

The bard wrested off his other boot and dropped it to the floor, began shedding his borrowed jacket.

"For the moment? Thought you were listening, man; I didn't enspell those coins, just so you could play the voyeur! Even I tell the truth once in a blue moon, Mister 'You-Go-Search-Darkon-While-I-Lounge-Around': this damned legwork's run me ragged, and I've at least a week's sleep to catch up on."

Crow unfastened his waistcoat, shucked it, then shook his head, sending his unkempt black curls flouncing loosely over his shoulders. He paused, shot an irritated glance at the space from whence the Borcan's voice had emenated.

"Blast it, appear, why don't you? You've already proven you can frustrate me, making me speak to empty air; I'd think that playing the same joke sixteen times running would've gotten tiresome for you as well, by now..." The VRS spy's own vocal tone was put-upon, ending in a wearied sigh.

Buchvold, of course, did not appear, nor would he until his spell's natural duration lapsed. Each man's refusal to be pushed had already become a hallmark of their reluctant alliance, as much so as their mutual efforts to pester the other, probing for as-yet-untried weaknesses.

Crow sighed again, already tired of the Borcan's obstinance. The man shared a common failing of his countrymen, an inane belief that life was meant to be taken seriously. He'd have to find a way to loosen up Buchvold's tight-laced strings -- introduce him to operas more comic than Borca's grisly native fare, perhaps ... or just fix him up with a lively lass, for that matter! -- if he was to endure their "arrangement" for long, without being bored to tears. Give it time, the bard would think of something suitably outrageous.

Invisible or not, the wizard's own frustration was palpable in the room. An instant before Buchvold would've demanded a proper answer -- Crow knew the Borcan detested how well the bard had learned to anticipate his queries, so naturally arranged circumstances to show off that particular knack at every chance -- the dark-curled spy continued, as if he'd never veered from the subject at hand:

"But I'm sure you meant my long-term plans, not just today's. Well, after I wrap up this encounter -- and assuming you don't have any other 'minor chores' to saddle me with? searching every cavern in the Balinoks, perhaps? sifting the sands of Pharazia for clues to that bloody lich's whereabouts? -- I'd best check in with some contacts of my own. If they've no leads to offer, I can get started backtracking the sorcerer Van Rijn turned against your loyalist comrades: provided the lich hasn't killed Terrence yet, his mortal pawn may yet have ties to the world of living men, that he'd failed to fully sever in advance, not expecting the fracas in St. Ronges to leave any survivors. Tracking the servant may well provide clues where the master's trail is hidden."

As he spoke, Crow continued unselfconsciously stripping to his undergarb, as much to make the straightlaced Borcan uncomfortable as to ensure his need for sleep wouldn't be countermanded by some last-minute duty that Buchvold might concoct for him out of spite. He idly reached for the neck-button of his shirt, then stopped, thinking better of it. Buchvold's hirelings hadn't bothered to expose his chest, when they'd decorated it with bruises a month ago; the Borcan wizard had never seen the bard's bared torso. Best not to give his resentful associate any more clues as to Crow's history ... not that his scars had afforded proof of anything much, to sate the bard's own curiosity in that regard.

(The VRS spy had no intention of tracking down Jeffery Terrence. If Van Rijn had been cunning enough to undermine the Fraternity's defenses and elude its avid pursuit, for weeks, Crow had no doubt he'd disposed of the lesser turncoat within hours of the Manoir's destruction. While the bard was nowhere near so cavalier about the wastage of men's lives, he well knew that a lone fugitive could elude capture far more easily than one burdened with an entourage. He'd already wasted the better part of a month, chasing baseless rumors across the length and breadth of the world's largest nation; his talents could be put to better uses than locating a ditchside corpse.

(Still, he'd had to tell the Borcan something, to buy himself time and liberty while the illusionist pursued his own quest. Mortigny beckoned, more strongly than ever in the wake of his gaffe with Kingsley. He had to try to remember, to discern if he'd spoken the truth to her, and thus, how severely he'd betrayed himself.)

Looking back at the vacancy where Buchvold evidently stood, the spy cocked his head questioningly -- 'adjusting' his shirt-collar as he did so, to cover up his aborted move to unbutton it -- and asked his "ally":

"Do you think we should rendevouz back in Lechberg this time, to inspect Kingsley's letters first-hand and to re-equip ourselves from your warehouse's stock? Or is another foreign meeting-place necessary, to keep your 'good friend' the Sef from getting too inquisitive? I'm game to take the risk of a return to Borca ... but then, I'm not the one who just inherited a second fortune from a Brother who gagged at his first taste of fricasseed puff-adder heads with cockroach garnishes, at one of Dilisnya's bloody banquets!"

Crow made a rather juvenile 'being-sick' face, then set about tying his shoulder-length curls back for the day's nap. Sleeping in makeup wasn't his usual habit, but he'd make an exception, just in case Kingsley had some belated epiphany and came rushing in to enlighten -- or attack, accuse, seduce, whatever; if the spy had learnt anything of the Paridoner today, it was that he shouldn't wholly rely on his ability to anticipate the charming professor's reactions -- her breakfast-guest.

(Sleeping in daytime, nonwithstanding his prior grousing about the window-glare, had never posed any difficulty for Crow. It was another handy talent, both for a musician and a man in his true line of work, and the bard sorely wished he could take credit for it.)
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Moral Machivelli »

"It may be as well to forget those contacts of yours, One of my own has spoted the good Mr. Terrence in Clavica, Liffe, bound for Martina Bay, however, it may be as well to verify it with the man himself. I here boats to Liffe are very good" A peice of paper appered on Crow's bedside table.
"Do you think we should rendevouz back in Lechberg this time, to inspect Kingsley's letters first-hand and to re-equip ourselves from your warehouse's stock? Or is another foreign meeting-place necessary, to keep your 'good friend' the Sef from getting too inquisitive? I'm game to take the risk of a return to Borca ... but then, I'm not the one who just inherited a second fortune from a Brother who gagged at his first taste of fricasseed puff-adder heads with cockroach garnishes, at one of Dilisnya's bloody banquets!"

"Certianly not" A shade of the old anger apperes agen in Buchvold's voice "We will only meet outside Borca, However, I believe we both have more than enough to do before the Meeting."

"So..." the borcan walks to the door "Untill Souragne. And rember not to steal anything whirlst I'm not present.

The door opens and closes with but the barest hint of anger.

OOC: Buchvold hasn't guessed that Crow tried to pull the wool over his eyes, but he wants the bard kept busy for now, for motives of his own.
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Sorry for the delay, folks, but the bard went and stuck me with another long-winded one, again! But this should more or less wrap up the thread, apart from a closing letter Crow'll leave for Kingsley ... unless you want to show how the Borcan responds to the 'puzzle', that is, Moral. :wink: ]

***

Hmph. Touchy, touchy, are we…? The Borcan’s social camouflage was improving, as was his capacity to rein in that roiling temper, but he had a long way to go before the bard would cease to see right through his false poise. Buchvold would surely never approach Kingsley’s artful finesse, where such psychological skirmish-tactics were concerned; still, at least the man’s ploys demonstrated ample spirit, if little originality.

Like those dryly-snide criticisms he’d voiced earlier, about Crow’s Listening Coin spell – And I suppose having some wretched ghostly ear floating in the middle of the dining hall, for all to see, would’ve been an improvement? You’d think a Fraternity illusionist might at least begin to appreciate subtlety, if any wizard could… – or the all-too-predictable “surprise” that his reluctant ally had indeed stuck him with another errand. (Granted, that he’d been dispatched to Liffe was a surprise … but only because he’d been planning to drop by the island, anyway. The musician had been roaming in Darkon for four weeks straight – long enough to imperil the meager decade of memories he could lay claim to, should he tarry any further in the lich-king’s realm – and the mere thought of riding to a terrestrial border made his ill-treated ankle throb sforzando.) Or the pompous way the nobleman had impugned the bard’s competence, by questioning his judgment in steering the Paridoner – a base slandering of the spy’s tradecraft, that offended him far more deeply than bloody Buchvold would ever know – then blamed his nation’s probate courts for his own tardiness in delivering Taroyan’s journals. As if Crow didn’t know perfectly well that no FoS member’s real personal documents would be allowed to slip into the hands of prying government bureaucrats!

Or the stratagem the VRS spy had been expecting Buchvold to try, sooner or later, ever since he’d first made a note of the Borcan’s chronic fondness for invisibility. In a way it was almost cute, that the man did such obvious things, without noticing how predictable his clichéd tactics made him. The hackneyed traditions of opera, clearly, had a lot more than bigotry to answer for, in the merchant-mage’s character.

The impishness in Crow sparked as he shucked off his stockings, but he firmly quashed its impulse – he’d done enough impetuous risk-taking for one day, thank you – and tossed the wadded-up socks at the closed door of his suite: a wordless expression of scorn for his “departed” ally. Wordless, because the persona he’d revealed to the man in November was as short-spoken as “Brother Crow” was, garrulous … and because he was listening, with a trained eavesdropper’s practiced attention. No sound rewarded his effort, but he’d seen for himself how the wizard was capable of holding his tongue – or his breath – if circumstances made it prudent: overheard breathing or the like would have substantiated the bard’s suspicion, but silence constituted no proof of absence.

Really, did the Borcan honestly believe him so stupid? Or did his grudging “ally” have his own sort of game in mind? Either way, the bard had no objection to being underestimated; it was precisely what much of his con-artist’s repertoire of strategies relied upon.

(In truth, the bard held no lasting grudge against Buchvold. Interrogations were a hazard of his calling he’d long ago made his peace with, and he’d sought payback for the beating in Lechberg for principle’s sake – such brutality cried out for justice, irregardless of whether or not its target happened to be him – not revenge. Granted, stinging the Borcan’s pride was a hell of a lot of fun, but he’d have to ease off the pestering before too much longer, lest their working relationship suffer unduly: galling and aggravating though it was, Crow had too much use for the man to risk losing him.

(Still, tossing his stockings at the vacant patch where he was fairly certain the invisible illusionist yet stood – near enough to the door to have opened and shut it without telltale floor-creaks or footsteps; far enough aside not to find himself trampled, if Crow chose to set his garments out for the hotel’s washerwoman – had been awfully tempting….)

Oh, just stop it. Grow up a bit, already: even if you did slip badly with Kingsley, you’ve more professional pride than this!, the bard mutely berated himself, pinching the bridge of his nose out of irritation at his own petulance. The man may be an overbearing boor, but he’s hardly in a position to turn the tables at this stage of the game – apart from all else, his own Frat-brothers would vivisect him on the spot if they suspected a tenth of what he’s told a non-member by now – and some tasks actually require a sledgehammer’s approach.

And besides, you know it’s really not his attitude that’s irritating you. It’s that you were so looking forward to his reaction, when you told him about that little prank you’d pulled on his colleagues in the Brautslava cell: how some unscrupulous cad’s been spreading baseless rumors all over Darkon that the Institute’s student honor society – or was it a fraternity, perhaps? rumors can be so deceptive and contradictory at times, particularly if they involve party-starved college students… – was paying five times the going rate to hire an orchestra’s-worth of musicians for their post-Solstice “Dawn After Darkest” end-of-term bash! Thought for sure he’d pick up on that “gaffe” in your tale to the professor, but he stormed off without bothering to ask why you said you’d gone there, to be rebuffed in your request for help. Kingsley spotted it for sure – perhaps she’ll be amused, to hear the Institute’s staff whine of how they were inundated by vagabond off-season troubadours, wandering the campus in the week before Darkest Night, asking about “the fraternity” – but reading between the lines from a distance doesn’t seem to be Buchvold’s strong point.

Oh, well. It’d still been a way to keep himself amused, given that he was roving the length and breadth of Darkon to search for Van Rijn anyway. Irritating the wicked was the closest thing to a hobby the VRS spy allowed himself – his music could be every bit as functional of a craft as his spy-skills, so couldn’t be classified as purely recreational, however-loved – and while such trivial harassment of Mr. Buchvold had gone about as far as Crow ever intended to take it, his pestering of the Fraternity itself had scarcely even begun to manifest. He’d work with the malignant organization so long as necessity demanded, but he didn’t have to respect it, by any means.

And besides, the ploy had gotten a hell of a lot more of his fellow-performers out of the cities – and hence, clear of any potential second Requiem – than any direct effort to warn others of the true threat could have. Nine years of abortive doomsayers and unanswered paranoia had long since inured the general Darkonian populace to the prospect of history repeating itself. He might’ve had better luck next year – not least, because a decade’s span had separated Il Aluk’s demise from the Great Upheaval, and a morbid expectation that the Land of Mists was predestined to suffer yet another mass cataclysm in 760 was widely promulgated by the ranting-streetcorner-lunatic set – but for the Solstice just past, nobody wanted to hear it. And even the best lies he could devise wouldn’t persuade the average, sedentary civilian to abandon home and hearth, and run for cover into the black depths of Darkest Night … not on the word of a passing stranger who couldn’t afford to linger, and continually reiterate his story, anyway.

Luckily, a hefty majority of his bardic compatriots led nomadic lifestyles anyway, and those of vast Darkon, especially so. While doom-and-gloom predictions would’ve only made them laugh, the prospect of easy work and easier coin had been more than sufficient to set a goodly number of his more poverty-stricken colleagues on the road to Stagnus Lake, even in December. Nor would getting tossed off the campus by the Institute’s security-stewards be an unprecedented experience for most: it wouldn’t be the first time a rumored employment-opportunity proved ephemeral. Crow hoped that Brautslava’s guardians were wise enough not to have broken many bones or instruments – while individual bards were far from inviolate, it wasn’t considered good business-sense to needlessly antagonize the Core’s unofficial information-network as a whole – or that, if they had employed excessive force, his fellow-entertainers had done the sensible thing and retreated. He wouldn’t want the retaliatory trashing of the Institute’s reputation to be so severe, the school would be forced to shut down due to loss of revenue: the VRS spy liked knowing where the Fraternity’s primary Darkonian branch was headquartered.

Whatever the outcome of his “prank”, he’d shielded his fellow musicians as best he was able. His personal obligation to Art had been fulfilled, without imposing any appreciable delay upon his mission. Given how folklore and Van Richten Society reports alleged that entertainers’ talents were mutilated by undeath – how their creativity was smothered by bitter despair and all native joy and passion were leached from performances gone hollow – the bard couldn’t have brought himself to do any differently: dying for his Society’s cause, Crow had likewise made his peace with, but the prospect of having to lumber about afterward repulsed him even more profoundly than it did, most of his VRS associates! The spy would save a child from becoming Slain before he’d rescue another musician from such a ghastly fate, but not many others rated higher on his personal priority-list. The loss of one’s gifts would constitute a whole additional dimension of torment, a bereavement that would vastly compound all the others.

(The bard’s wrists itched at the thought, and he clenched his teeth to suppress the impulse to scratch. Again, no weakness, no inadvertent admissions to invisible Buchvold.)

Work, he had to work, and to rest his body in readiness for same. He could afford no careless mistakes with the Borcan, no lapses of self-discipline as there’d been with Kingsley. He’d gotten carried away, that’s all – that must be it, had to have been it – and let slip “Pavel” out of the sheer intoxication of the chase, the heady thrill of a duel well-fought. Their dialogue had been such fun, had roused his faculties and challenged his wits like no discourse he’d savored in months, that he’d subconsciously resisted having it come to an end, and must have let the name slip to ensure that their next encounter would be no less tense or intellectually stimulating. Naturally that was it, of course it was! It must be!!!

It couldn’t possibly – couldn’t conceivably – simply be a sign that Crow was lonely, always interacting through and in and behind his intricate defensive framework of lies…

(The bard was very good at lying, even that unique brand of deceit that his subconscious imposed on himself. Trouble was, his training and experience at spycraft had made him exceptionally good at spotting lies, as well! The dark-curled musician would have a great deal to think about in Mortigny, not all of it to do with either Gertrude Kingsley or his own forgotten past.)

Shaking off his pensive digression, Crow realized he’d not veiled his tightness of jaw, so he covered his tension with another irritated look, and barked aloud a scatological critique of the twenty-odd generations of Buchvolds who’d ever afflicted the Land of Mists with their presence. He snatched up the page the illusionist had laid on the bedside table, next to the reclaimed Tao forgery, squinted at it in the dimness of the sealed-up room. Face fuming, he lit the hurricane lamp at the bedside – damned if he was going to flounder across the room and crack open the shutters, in front of the bloody mage – and committed the Liffe contact’s address to memory, then rolled up the note and slid it into the lamp’s open top, to blaze up and incinerate within the glass chimney’s confines.

Again, the bard doubted if anyone but an undertaker (if not a zombie-hunting adventurer) would ever lay eyes upon Jeffery Terrence in this world, again. Three chances in five, he’d lay odds it was a case of mistaken identity – the physical description of the sorcerer which Buchvold had circulated to his informants was hardly unique to the turncoat alone, and Crow knew well how easily a fugitive’s guise could be changed, with or without magic; besides, who’s to say Terrence showed the Fraternity his real face at the Manoir, any more than the bard had? – and one in five that it was some manner of trap, whether engineered by Van Rijn himself, or by some other faction (Kargat, maybe? They surely knew that something grim was afoot within the FoS’s ranks by now…) seeking insight into the loyalists’ counteroperations. The last one-in-five was either a lie on the contact’s part – he’d warned the Borcan not to make the reward for information too large, but since when did the noble listen to the likes of him? – or a genuine sighting of the sorcerer, quite possibly on the run from Van Rijn as well as the Fraternity. If Terrence was alive, it was either because the lich had a clear, concrete need for his catspaw to stay that way (were there more living-member-keyed booby traps out there, at other secured FoS sites? Nasty thought!), or because the sorcerer had caught on to just how expendable he truly was, and scampered.

If the latter were the case, perhaps Crow would have cause to search for the fugitive, after all. Not just to reconnoiter his movements on Buchvold’s behalf, but to pump Terrence for information on both the lich and the Fraternity of Shadows, itself … and then eradicate all memory of their encounter, so whichever faction eventually caught up to the sorcerer wouldn’t learn who else had been keen on what the traitor had to reveal. Sabotaging the recollections of a lightning-hurling mass murderer would scarcely be grounds for any moral qualms on the bard’s part; he’d employed the technique on such proven villains before, to good effect.

Just because Crow was working with Buchvold didn’t mean he was working for him, no matter how he’d let the wizard’s smug conceits convince him otherwise. The Borcan didn’t need to know everything that Crow did, and the bard had more extracurricular shenanigans in mind than his annual visit to the Sorrows. That Buchvold was chasing off to Sithicus only made things easier, from the VRS spy’s perspective.

As he reached to extinguish the hurricane lamp – and leaned over its ash-flecked chimney as if checking the note had burnt up completely, so the invisible illusionist wouldn’t see his eyes dart to the crumpled stockings, noting each detail of how they lay strewn at the door’s edge – Crow softly chuckled to himself. Making things easier for the bard seemed an inadvertent hobby on Buchvold’s part … like the way he’d ordered Crow, explicitly and sternly and in full, never to steal anything “whilst I’m not present”. Again, it was almost cute, how the man’s cunning consistently outsmarted itself.

Granted, the total number of coins he’d filched from Buchvold’s own pockets in the past month – not to mention the twin Skulls he’d mooched for his surveillance-spell today, or various other tidbits of currency he’d borrowed, then “forgotten” to return the change for – wouldn’t even add up to the cost of the outfit the illusionist’s nephew had lent him! But it was the principle of the thing: whoever or whatever the bard really was, he was not a man to let others – be they respected VRS associates or the despised, unseen bastards themselves – tell him what to do, or think, or be, without some show of defiance.

(Oh, and seventeen pens. It was childish in the extreme, but something in Crow just could not resist nicking Buchvold’s pens, every chance he got! The bard chuckled again, as he imagined how they would look on display in his off-Core hideaway’s trophy-case, when – if – this over-lengthy mission ever came to a close.)

Perhaps triggered by his moment’s calming flight-of-fancy, a genuine yawn seized hold of the spy’s physiognomy – he wasn’t sure how many hours of sleep he’d grabbed on the hotel room’s floor last night, while the wizard hogged the bed, but it sure-as-perdition hadn’t been enough to make up for his last weeks’ hellish riding and quest – and both his eyelids abruptly felt about ten pounds heavier. For all that his hyperactive wit and drive conspired to conceal the fact, Crow wasn’t as hardy a man as his svelte bearing and agile mannerisms implied: he’d run his body into the ground on missions many times before, and recognized the signs of an impending ‘crash’, that would make sleep mandatory with or without his approval. Maybe Buchvold’s brusque “departure” wasn’t such a bad thing, after all: he’d have felt a right fool, had his recent exertions caught up with him in mid-argument.

Nothing to be done about it, the bard grudgingly allowed. He’d have liked to mess with the Borcan’s dignity a little longer, so long as the invisible wizard’s pretended “absence” restricted the other’s freedom to retaliate – to compose, aloud, a ditty about snotty Lechberger banking-brats whose servants did all their thinking for them, perhaps? – but Crow doubted he’d stay alert long enough to finish its chorus, let alone concoct any good verses. Instead, he settled for unwrapping the copper coin from his knotted handkerchief (an entirely unenchanted chip-piece, though he’d led Kingsley to presume it was dark-enspelled), and held it up to his ear, features composed as if listening intently.

This particular chip wasn’t enchanted as a receiver, either. If Crow’d wanted to monitor Buchvold in such a manner, he’d hardly have revealed his spell’s workings to the man, by inviting him to listen in on this morning’s charade! But the bard had to allow the dour mage some notion of his capabilities, to keep the Borcan convinced of his usefulness. He needed the wizard to be as much partner as patsy, if their mutual aim of Van Rijn’s downfall and the plans’ recovery was to be achieved … not to mention keeping the bard’s lack of valid FoS membership concealed, for the illusionist’s own safety now (for the Fraternity was hardly in a mood to mollycoddle the loose-lipped, these days) as much as Crow’s.

Still, picturing the Borcan’s blanch at the dawning realization that the bard could have been planting such Listening Coins on his person, all this time (!), was a pleasant image for the spy to call it a day on. Not to mention how the wizard would frantically search his own body for such a coin, once he really did exit the room, dumping out change from his pockets and inspecting the currency via Detect Magic, all the while trying to be silent. All right, granted the mage wasn’t visible at the moment, so his reactions wouldn’t be visible, either … even so, it was a notion to be prized.

Frowning as if in disappointment, Crow set the coin aside on the bedside table – no need to mark it, to see if Buchvold would attempt a swap; he’d already covertly scored the soft copper’s rim with his thumbnail, whilst executing his sleight-of-hand display for the professor – and slipped his weary frame under the bedcovers. Sparing in its refinements or not, the Riverview Rest wasn’t lax in its provision of linens. The aristocratically-bred Borcan had grumbled uncharitable remarks as to the sheets’ low quality, but to the VRS agent – long accustomed to napping on rickety cots or in bedrolls laid over floorboards, although his higher-toned missions occasionally saw him bedded down amidst brushed velvet and satin – the crisp, fresh-laundered fabric was luxury.

Pity the Borcan was almost certainly still in the room, as the bard’s usual preference was to sleep ‘in the raw’. Not a penchant popular or reputable in the staid and prudish Core, where few wedded couples of rank so much as shared a bedchamber, though he’d heard that standards differed in at least some of the farther-flung realms. He’d picked up the shocking habit in the course of a prior investigation … one which had tested the spy’s versatility as an infiltrator to new heights. (That true-born werewolves could instinctively distinguish humans from their own kind was a proven fact, and had bloodily stymied all documented attempts by monster-hunters past to penetrate their social order. The druid who’d assisted his prep-work for the mission, however, had been as good as her word: the minor clan of Stonebreakers Crow’d targeted had included no shaman, so none of the lycanthropes were equipped to detect that the “orphaned” wolf cub they’d freed from a trapline and reverently adopted was nothing of the sort. The actual polymorphing had stung like a hive-full of wasps, but his rational mind and aptitude for ‘fitting in’ had been spared him. His insider’s report on the weres’ pack dynamics had been invaluable to the Society’s other, more conventional field-agents, and well worth the risks entailed … even if Crow never, ever, ever wanted to taste venison again, no matter how thoroughly cooked.)

Granted, the bard didn’t give a damn what Buchvold thought of him … but again, there were his scars to conceal. And if some Mist-bound realms were less stringent than the Core, Paridon was anything but! The bard didn’t seriously expect Kingsley to disturb his rest – not for any reason short of the hotel’s catching fire, at least; it would be rude, and Milady Scalpel simply didn’t do rude – but sleeping unclad after talking to her seemed downright crass, an unfitting epilogue to their ever-so-mannerly conversation.

In any case, the spy didn’t want to get too comfortable, fine linens or not. The longer he held off sleep, the more he’d learn of Buchvold’s intentions … and of the illusionist’s abilities, which was the real reason he’d invited the Borcan into his scheme for the day. Even if Buchvold was working with him now, he couldn’t assume that their armistice would last, no matter what precautionary measures Crow might engineer, to avert such a breakdown! The Borcan did act the fool at times, but ‘foolish’ and ‘stupid’ weren’t – quite – the same thing. The bard would have to watch, and be prepared, for inevitable shifts in the fragile state of truce he’d foisted upon the man: a truce he well knew that Buchvold still intended to violate, soon as the wizard were to deem it both convenient and logistically-feasible.

Sledgehammers were clumsy and crude and brutal compared to, say, scalpels. But if they did manage to hit you – even glancingly – a second blow was almost never necessary.

And it wasn’t himself, alone, whose welfare he most feared for, nor either those innumerable innocents he fought to shield.

A wistful recollection from the dining-hall – Kingsley’s face, worry flashing across her features and then hidden in a heartbeat, as her concerns touched upon the welfare of that fortunate spouse whom she loved and feared for so deeply – brought a twitch of a smile to the bard’s still-masqued visage. Crow didn’t have a spouse to safeguard – at least, no wife his amnesia had spared to his recollection, though he’d sometimes wakened from dreams with the dwindling traces of a protective impulse fading from his awareness; whether it was felt for a bride, a child or parent, or even for this “Pavel” he only suspected to be himself, the bard’s subconscious refused to offer up that clue – but he could relate to the dread and dilemma suffered by the professor, on another’s behalf, nevertheless.

Buchvold didn’t know about Tiahn: had neither seen the guitar itself, nor heard the bard playing, even from afar. No one knew of Tiahn, not even the audiences who’d witnessed their duets; Crow’s disguise-spells had ever-painstakingly guarded her anonymity, no less than his own. And the Borcan would never know of the guitar, if Crow had any hand or say or influence in the matter.

(The VRS spy needed Buchvold’s help, and badly. Other consequences aside, he really, really didn’t want to have to cut loose from – or to kill – his only certain asset within the FoS’s ranks. But if Tiahn were threatened – his songbird … his soul … his sweet-voiced anchor to sanity and the only real testament he had to his elusive, erstwhile identity’s capacity for sentiment – he might not have a choice.)

As the bard settled himself, and reached down to snag one of his shed boots from the floor – nope, wrong one; he stretched to grab the other – he discreetly avoided letting his line of sight drift anywhere near the guitar-case, where the one tangible love of his post-amnesiac life waited, mute and patient, sealed safely beyond any foe’s grasp or detection in the case’s extradimensional vacancy. Safe, but unreachable for now, so long as Crow suspected Buchvold lurked nearby, be it here in this very room or elsewhere in the hotel.

Forgive me, sweet bird, the bard’s silent thoughts softly pled to the cherished instrument. Words of contrition he’d spoken so often, and so falsely, to Kingsley, were now weighted with as much honesty as the silver-tongued infiltrator was capable of offering. We can’t dance, not now, not as we should – your strings, my hands, our serenade – to calm my disquiet and beckon the snobbish, icy elf-hearts of this town to thaw or to break. I can’t risk that viper’s glimpsing you, my beauty, or even overhearing. The man is a bounder and a tone-deaf thug, dearest, a brute unworthy to touch one of your spent strings. Stay safe, my treasure – stay hidden, still your song just a little longer, at all costs keep away from him! – for my peace’s sake as well as your own protection.

(Intellectually, Crow knew it was folly, directing such warnings to Tiahn. The decorated guitar was not sentient, was not even enchanted; his beloved instrument’s only claim to ‘magic’ lay in what it – what she! – meant to him. But what could he do? The bard had spurned the gods for abandoning the world’s suffering innocents, wasn’t convinced there were gods truly worthy of their stature or the reverence afforded them by mortals. He wasn’t even certain that “gods”, in this ever-so-haunted Land, wasn’t just a more-fawning synonym for “Watchers” or “Dark Powers”: terms which – by his reckoning and experience – were equally synonymous with “bastards”! He couldn’t pray for Tiahn’s continued safety.)

Soon, love, I promise you that. Tonight, if I’m sure he’s gone; tomorrow on shipboard if needs must. We’ll play then, play for hours, I pledge you. Mortigny soon, too; you’ll like that, Tiahn-my-sweet, I know you will.

(The bard beamed inwardly. In his heart, the crow-painted guitar was every bit as warm and gracious a lady as Gertrude Kingsley … and no lady could help but be pleased, when a paramour remembered the precise place where first they’d met.)

Crow made a mental note to pick up another jar of that premium wood-sealant in Claveria, that had worked so well in the torrid climate of Sri Raji. If anything, spring in Souragne was yet more humid than the dry season in Muladi had been; his songbird would need the very best protection from moisture that money could buy. His own money too, legitimately earned via performances between missions, not Buchvold’s grudgingly-rationed or pilfered funds. The bard didn’t delude himself that he was a man of strict scruples – he’d start obeying the law and heeding socially-imposed morality on the day he saw proof that the authorities who wrote those laws and promulgated those morals were any less corrupt than the monsters his Society endeavored to quash; indeed, Crow’d seen enough of his world to know the monsters and authorities in question were the same individuals, more often than not – but he drew the line at spending the wealth which his missions made accessible to him on anything but his ongoing work. Hence, his close personal acquaintance with carpets as sleeping-pallets.

(Besides, it would make a nice anniversary present for his treasure. Ladies liked it when their suitors remembered that, as well.)

Feeling first his eyelids, then his head, grow heavier-still – the crash, looming inexorably – the bard shoved the morning’s turmoil and uncertainty to the back of his mind, for later analysis (Lonely? Me? Surely there’s more to it than that…), and slipped his hand into the boot’s interior before long-belated exhaustion robbed him of the dexterity to work the toe-toggles. Left boot, of course. While his lamed ankle didn’t provide as solid a support to stand upon, whilst delivering a surprise mule-kick if cornered, his limp tended to draw others’ attention away from his sound leg’s maneuvers. And the shrewder pursuers who did anticipate his response generally didn’t expect him to sacrifice a firm stance for a tottering one, even if they were well acquainted with the existence and deployment of snap-blades; they, too, usually trained their suspicious eyes at his bad leg, not his beweaponed one.

As ever, misdirection was the real trade-secret, not just aimless prevarication with no context. Be it as a bard concealing his tuneful casting-style to pass as a wizard at the Manoir, a spy “exposed” as a thief in Lechberg, or now a fake member posing as a duped, off-the-books half-member at the Riverview, another old swindlers’ maxim remained Crow’s watchword: Never try to convince someone you’re innocent. Make them believe you’re as guilty as sin … but of something else.

(Loneliness? Was it really that simple a problem…?

(Was it really that impossible a solution…?)

Feeling fatigue sweeping in to claim him – he wouldn’t be able to listen for the Borcan’s invisible doings, after all, but no matter: he’d ensured he’d still learn what he needed to – Crow set his fingertips to the triggers embedded on either side of his footwear’s interior, which he’d previously depressed with his toes after reciting the motto of the Fraternity, for Kingsley’s ears. This time, he used his fingers, and indulged in a moment’s sly editing for Buchvold’s:

“Cogito ergo … ludifico.”

The retractable snap-blade popped out at the back of the boot’s heel, as designed – “snap-blade” was a bit of a misnomer in this case, as he’d had the apparatus padded to mute the mechanism’s noise as thoroughly as mundane engineering allowed – and the chamber was again plunged into inky blackness. Cloaked by the darkness, Crow at last permitted himself a rather vicious grin, that the morning’s dialogue had transpired so very well, his lone slip at the end nonwithstanding. Having Buchvold apply his own sigil’s darkness-calling effect to the hidden blade in advance wasn’t a ploy the men could’ve relied upon, at a real Fraternity gathering; after the prior debacle at the Manoir de Penombre, magic-detection was sure to be part of any future meeting’s security-measures … and while the bard knew how to hide such a pre-made item’s aura of evocation from cursory inspection, that was one weapon in his bilker’s arsenal he didn’t care to reveal to the Borcan. To be caught carrying such a pre-cast Darkness effect was a lapse truly guaranteed to expose his FoS “membership” as a fraud! But for dealing with Kingsley, the gimmick had been ideal, all the more so in that his coin-play had ensured his hands never left her plain view.

She’ll trust I’m a member now, whatever other suspicions she’ll harbor about the rest of my story … but have I spoiled my chances of her ever trusting me, by deluging her with such fabrications? I’ll have to stand her up for dinner, of course – no way I can strategize today, I’m too done-in, and it’ll take a LOT of thought to plan my next approach, after that slip-up! – but did she opt not to refuse my invitation on the spot because I’ve won her interest as a potential friend, or because she sees me as an enemy holding her husband’s life hostage to blackmail? Damnation, there’s got to be SOME way to earn her trust!

Perhaps there was. And yet … did he really deserve to have her trust, after exploiting her better nature as he had? The professor wasn’t his usual caliber of ‘mark’, deceived through the spy’s shrewd manipulation of their greed or paranoia or cruelty; she’d succumbed due to her loyalty and graciousness, not through inherent flaws of character! Crow’d not fully appreciated that Kingsley was a better person at heart than her brethren, until after they’d begun talking – he’d been pretty sure that her good manners were a front, but not that the prickliness and grudges she nurtured behind them were largely that, as well – by which point, he’d already fallen into the routine of molding his strategies to fit her reactions, not his own ethics. By all rights, he should have eased off the pressure once he ascertained she wasn’t the courtesy-camouflaged she-viper he’d been expecting, but he truly had gotten too caught up in the game….

Perhaps he did owe Professor Kingsley a real apology, at that.

(And real trust? If never about his mission, then at least about himself: his thoughts; his doubts; his long-deferred, long-denied need for someone real to talk to…?

(Could he really stretch his “Brother” Crow persona far enough to allow for that, without jeopardizing his imposture by admitting to sentiments the callous Fraternity rejected out-of-hand? And dared he attempt such a venture with Gertrude Kingsley, whose incisive discernment and intensity of character had harmonized so well with his own nature, yet who for that very reason was most likely of all to penetrate his façade?

(Was he even capable of extending trust, anymore? Had he ever been…?)

His wrists itched again: warningly, accusingly.

Stop. It. Stop. Thinking. Sleep! Now! Save it. Mortigny…

Perhaps already half-sleeping – perhaps, even, teetering on the brink of one of the unbreathing fugues that claimed him under the worst extremes of stress, albeit momentarily and seldom – the bard withdrew his hand from the boot, then dropped his blade-bearing footwear into the narrow gap between bed and wall, out of the wizard’s reach. A little puzzle for invisible Buchvold, to try to exit the suite without flooding the hallway with Deeper Darkness. Either the Borcan (assuming he was in here, at all) would dismiss his sigil-ring’s effect – and then not be able to restore it, without disturbing and waking up Crow in his search for the concealed boot – or he’d employ his own scrying-magics to look into the hallway and check for any witnesses before opening the door – in which case, the dropped socks wouldn’t be in the same position as before – or he’d still be in the room, trapped by his own ill-considered attempt to outfox the ‘dog-fox’, when the bard awoke.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

Between the copper coin (switched or not … and if Buchvold was still here, he’d be sure to try it: the man had too much to hide not to), the socks (disturbed or not), and the snap-blade’s Darkness-effect (dismissed or not), Crow was fairly certain that by the time he checked himself out of the hotel, he’d know whether or not the illusionist could Teleport. Buchvold’s current chattiness about the Fraternity’s secrets was wonderful – that pride in his vaunted organization’s capabilities at work, again; that, and the wizard’s oft-avowed confidence that Crow’d not survive the coming counterstrike against Van Rijn, once the lich’s hiding place was smoked out – but where the scope of the Borcan’s own power was concerned, getting so much as veiled hints out of the man was like pulling teeth.

And if the bard was, indeed, going to destroy the stolen Doomsday Device plans, instead of merely recovering them as he’d pledged to do, he needed to know the full extent of the Borcan illusionist’s mobility. Crow might have made his peace with the price his work demanded of him – and given the stakes, a suicide mission was a price worth paying, if it rid the Land of the menace of a second Requiem – but that didn’t mean he relished the prospect: if he were still capable of fleeing afterward, he’d damn well do his best to elude the aristocratic wizard’s wrath.

It was that not-so-comforting thought that ushered the bard to sleep, unable to fend off the heaviness any longer. Not that it mattered, really, whether his wakeful mind’s closing thoughts were ominous or pleasant: the nightmares came upon him either way of late, and no doubt would continue doing so until the city-killing plans were eradicated. Then again, the amnesiac musician’s dreams had been… troubling… in one way or another, for as far back as his truncated memories stretched. It didn’t really bother or impair him anymore; for years, the bard had been numbed to his darker dreams’ unique, albeit somewhat repetitive, brand of terror.

Were it just a matter of chronic nightmares, the ever-adaptable spy would have long since learned to live with it.

But Crow hadn’t dreamt of her for months, now. The nightmares had displaced his other style of dream from his sleeping psyche. And to lose those dreams – the only other evidence he had, however intangible or dubious its source, that his former self had once been capable of sentiment, of compassion, of love – was beyond enduring.

Whatever dreams or terrors his subconscious might hold in store for him, a crash couldn’t be forestalled, be it by willpower or worry. Seconds after the dropped boot hit the floor, Crow was out like a light.

(Sleeping, vulnerable and oblivious, in the presence of a bitter enemy had never posed a problem for the bard, either. He could hardly have functioned so well as an infiltration-agent, had he let that distress him! It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that he’d lain helpless in the company of men who called you “Brother” with feigned politeness, yet schemed to sink a dagger in your back. Deny it though he might, Crow really had been about his work, in driven and obsessive solitude, for far longer than was emotionally or psychologically prudent.

(If the bard had ever stopped to think about it, he’d realize how such precarious, dire circumstances were starting to feel unnervingly-much like home, to him…)


[OOC: "ludifico -are, dep.: to make game of , deride, delude, cheat, frustrate." Looks like the bard's found himself a motto now, too! :lol: ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Moral Machivelli
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Post by Moral Machivelli »

In the morning, Crow will find none of the items disterbed , but he will find a small peice of paper in plain view in the middle of the floor.

Will you cease attempting to insult my intelligence with your pathetic tests? Their are at least three solutions to this problem, that leave the room as it is here, and all are well within my power, let me assure you of that.

Stop playing these games, bard!

Yrs sincearly

Raephael Buchvold

:wink:
OOC For once ,Buchvold has told very nearly the whole truth :wink:
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Rotipher of the FoS
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[OOC: Heh heh. He did get Buchvold to admit -- in writing, no less! -- that the Borcan had lingered in the room invisibly, though! So who's really got the better claim to have caught someone playing games and insulting the other's intelligence, now? :wink:

[And you see what Crow means, about the Borcan seriously needing to loosen up.... 8) ]
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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Post by Rotipher of the FoS »

[Somewhat sloppily-handwritten note accompanying the original Tao letter; both sealed in an envelope addressed to Professor G. Kingsley; entrusted to the concierge of the Riverview Rest, mid-afternoon of same day:]


Most gracious Madam,

With all due respect and regrets, I must abashedly impose upon your forbearance yet again, undependable clod that I am. Though it pains me to abandon so honorable and charming a conversationalist to her solitary devices, I find I cannot join you for dinner as previously I had proposed. Though I’d not leave a lady wholly in the lurch – pray, dine at your leisure at the hotel tonight; order whatsoever takes your fancy, as I’ve asked the concierge to devote the untapped (and non-refundable, alas!) balance of my rooming-fees toward your comfort – I fear I must risk further damage to your opinion of me, and attend directly to the matter of a certain onetime thespian’s paranoid machinations.

Allow me, in passing, to extend to you my sympathetic outrage at the contents of the enclosed missive, the sheer disrespectfulness of which, I’d not even begun to suspect until I’d actually read it upon waking. (Imagine, the utter gall of the man, to condescend, thusly, toward so-worthy a personage as yourself … to say nothing of patronizing me, whilst blatantly appropriating my writing-style, to do so!) Previously, if memory serves, I had expressed regret for having naïvely passed your name on to men I thought I could trust; now, having seen for myself the churlish way he treated you in correspondence, I rue the day I shied from exerting a yet-unaccustomed rank’s authority, allowing him to impose a “leadership” of cowardice upon we whom providence had fortuitously spared!

Having perused his words at last, and with a clear head, I must sheepishly admit that I now believe we have – both of us – overestimated both my old mentor’s ambition and his mettle. Far from testing the waters for some prospective return to our order’s company, in contacting you, I can only conclude that his interest in communication had less to do with your position on the margins of said order, than with simple geography: with the fact that no truly civilized realm save your homeland is accessible directly from Darkon, yet without crossing (monitored) terrestrial borders … and no place within the Core is, in all likelihood, far enough from that morose kingdom to sate his craven urge to flee.

I now believe, Professor, my erstwhile teacher’s sole motive in this matter is not to aid or defend our organization, nor even his protégés, but merely to save his own skin. Knowing him as I do, I can sense the terror, behind his words, that a disaster witnessed by we five once before will not spare him – nor any life in this realm – should its horrors come to pass, a second time. And, having initially found such terror in the contents of my reports of last October, it would appear that he seized upon contact with yourself – your name and nationality, the sole facts about you enclosed within those very reports – merely as a means by which to facilitate an easier escape.

The old man wants to move to Paridon, Madam, before that which was mislaid on the evening in question makes its dire consequences felt across all Darkon ... and the rest of the Core to boot, as like as not. And if this is true – if he truly has abandoned all things of his past … and me, also, doubtless in dread my own attendance at that brouhaha will draw vengeful pursuers near (else, why deny me all knowledge of his departure-plans?) – then I regretfully can not linger in Nevuchar Springs a moment longer, if I am to intercept and confront him before he quits those locales I know he frequents, or used to do. Not even, lamentably, for the pleasure of your inestimable company.

It is possible I am wrong; indeed, I rather hope I am wrong, for all that the alternatives may pose a greater physical danger. I’d far rather believe I can still count upon the old man to provide the steady backbone (backbeat?) of our quintet, that he would not desert us in his desperation. But I cannot ignore the possibility that I am not wrong, in this – not if he thinks to lead the brothers into still-deeper exile with him, and leave me behind without a word! – nor risk letting him intimidate you or your loved ones into assisting his transition to a new land, whose speech, customs and way of life are wholly unfamiliar to him.

Rest assured: if my suspicions are correct, I will do all in my power to steer my once-mentor away from any course of action contributing to your further harassment or distress, Professor. Until then, as I said before, I certainly won’t leave you in the lurch; I have enclosed the letter which you lent me, that led me to these new conclusions, so that you might employ it as leverage, in the event my teacher’s schemes should require a face-to-face confrontation with you. Show it to the brothers, if you would stir whatever doubts in him they might possess; threaten the revelation of its contents to our esteemed order, should the old man himself seek to compel your aid. For that matter, it wouldn’t hurt to do the same – tell the heads of our organization, your Zherisian colleagues, everyone! – if (but only if) I should fail to contact you by the coming month’s end: while I seriously doubt my teacher’s fears would push him that far, it’s remotely conceivable that my own actions vis-à-vis yourself may render my own trustworthiness suspect, in his skewed reckoning. Should you need to contact me, please make use of the mail-drop in Chateaufaux; my old Lamordian postal-box will rightly have to be retired, at long last, under the circumstances.

Be aware, Professor, that I entrust this letter – and with it, we few survivors’ futures – once more to your keeping, both as a shield for your own safety and in demonstration that the “mutual understanding and sympathy” of which you spoke so hopefully this morning has, for my part, been more than earned by your solicitous and graceful conduct. I pray you may yet allow me the chance, in future, to win a comparable measure of your trust … and, however-belatedly, to finally make good on tonight’s aborted invitation.

With the fondest of regards, a hopeful expectation you will find it in you to pardon my abrupt departure, and an implicit trust that your future discretion as to confidences revealed this day… any confidences, Madam… will remain as steadfast and flawless as your courtesy,

Your servant.



[In lieu of a signature is a simple line-drawing of a bird, dark wings “mantled”]





(OOC: Thread finished. Whew, that one was intense, Llana! :D )
"Who [u]cares[/u] what the Dark Powers are? They're [i]bastards![/i] That's all I need to know of them." -- Crow
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